


Case In Pointe

by thosetooweaktoseekit (TaraRhyme)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Case Fic, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Murder Mystery, Original Character(s), Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Slice of Life, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraRhyme/pseuds/thosetooweaktoseekit
Summary: Kids play lots of games, and this one's got murder. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson get dragged on another round of 'unbeatable' mystery. When the odds escalate and Watson has to save the day, the outlook seems grim...case!fic
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

"John," Sherlock's voice carried upstairs, with its constant excitable tremor. Cocking a brow, John looked up and decidely remained silent. He was not in the mood, but then again, never really was. That actually was quite irrelevant in the scheme of John-doing-things, John had learned.

He didn't hear anything more, and that was that, thank God. He was allowed to maintain the allusion of being on his lonesome, at least for the rest of this morning. The overwhelming presence of his roommate was almost always more than enough, when ignoring the doubtless surveillance they both were under. A spot of peace was a generous reprieve with John knowing that his every step was dogged- Sherlock's mind on the heels. It was the source of his stress and stress relief, his motivation for another day but a conundrum.

John stirred his cold tea half-heartedly, having again forgot to take the goddamn baggie out. The earl grey was darker than tar- and ice cold. While this was mostly due to negligence of yet another cup, the weather held some responsiblity.

They really needed to get a maintenance man in to fix the heating, the windows had begun to frost up and John couldn't manage to crack open his window for a breeze without an effort. The air was cool enough inside, but was beginning to get stale. Particularly the window furthest from the fireplace was unbearable, and deemed a lost cause from the lot of them.

John was considering most of all, begging off on the afternoon activities- excusing with having to call in maintenance.

The "case" was more of a favor to Lestrade, which was fair enough, but Sherlock was already in a horrid mood after cracking the banister with last night's enthusiasm. He's being quieter since in repentance, but as per patterned behavior that frustration will only manifest on the first to cross him. And God knows something will light him off, particularly running the risk of dealing with children.

Lestrade has a dear sister, and she had children, and they were dealing in something unsolvable- until Sherlock would solve it. Per the usual. Something with a local string of robberies and reappearances. People would not only vanish but reappear, with no memory of what they were doing or where they had been. Lestrade's sister was quaking with fear for her kids, which is well warranted. When the people return, the people aren't quite right anymore. Suffering from tremors and hallucinations not yet linked to drug use... until Sherlock solves it. A couple of the kids also, were around hers' ages. The ones that vanished and came back. Lestrade phoned in fairly quick.

"John, Lestrade." John nearly leapt out of his chair, when Sherlock's voice carried from the doorway, close by. With a half-arsed glare he looked at the earnest man. His solemn, high-cheeked face was nearly child-like in plainivity. He sighed.

"Yes well, I've got to call maintenance in." Sherlock mulled over that, and quickly resolved it. He looked nearly proud.

"Mrs. Hudson can help him in just fine."

"Sherlock, I've really got it. It's fine, she's getting well on in years." Sherlock straightened more impossibly, smoothed out invisible folds in his blazer, and simply left the room again. John knew why when a second later the front door opened with a bold,

"Drive, I need hands free." Him and Lestrade seemed to be making their getaway. And so John could breathe his short peace in again- generous of his flatmate. Though John doubted Sherlock suddenly understood respecting others' wishes. Likely just wasn't needing John all that much. That stung John's heart a bit but he ignored it, and his unhealthy reliance on his odd friend.

Because he had decided to enjoy the day. Maybe even make another cup of tea...


	2. Chapter 2

"There was little- excuse me Higgins- there wasn't much to go off with," the detective said. He guided them around drab, grey cubicles, with an over-full coffee mug knuckled tight in one hand. He'd nearly knocked it into a frazzled young man. "Nothing remarkable. Not much happens round these parts mind you, so maybe all of it's just remarkable." Out of habit, Detective Lestrade ran a ringless hand through his hair. He, unlike the policeman in front of them, could feel Holmes' frustration. The car ride really hadn't done his charming disposition any favors. But he was trying, the detective inspector had to grant him that.

All the same he saw Sherlock's dead eyes bore into the policeman and he felt pity.

For the man's sake, the detective hoped he would stop dwaddling and hurry on with what he wanted to say. The Sherlock Holmes experience was nothing to look forward to first thing in the morning.

"Anyhow, right, it started with the Knightley boy..." The man, a Mister Fawcett, brought them to a glass door with the shades drawn down it. The office wasn't as cramped as expected, with little decor, except on the desk. The desk had a wide array of action figures, glass figurines, and one snowglobe. It was of New York City in the snowy Christmastime.

"Not a word to where he's been?" Sherlock interrupted. He stepped fully into the room, and immediately went to stroke and thumb his way through the bookshelf. Rude. "Not to friends, family, not due to trauma..." Mr. Fawcett had his eyebrows furrowed as he watched the back of the man who was meant to solve their department's most recent (and arguably most interesting) case.

"Trauma, er. Most likely yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Non-medical," Sherlock hissed.

"No, Mr. Holmes." The Mister Fawcett's voice was rising defensively. "It was not medical trauma, but quite an event for a young boy! Regardless, he's hardly been the most tightlipped. The rest after..." Sherlock strode to the desk and grasped the snowglobe, and most interestingly he did not bother to shake it.

"All women. Not often the first is the first anomaly as well. The first mistake is the first..." He none too gently replaced the snowglobe and turned to fully face the officer. "Or a tester..."

"They are girls, sir. Just children really, and if you could- refrain from touching everything in my office." Inspector Lestrade could now feel prickliness from Mr. Fawcett. This seemed almost to calm Sherlock's restless energy. He was already in a more receptable mood, Lestrade could tell, because he didn't say a word to the other man's correction.

Sherlock liked when people were off balance and although Lestrade was loathe to admit it, it was a decent technique to cut to the point in many cases.

"I need to see him, obvious. His family. His friends." Sherlock snapped his thumb and forefinger together. "Friends first then."

"His friends?"

"Yes- yes, obviously," Sherlock said.

"Obviously?" Fawcett reared his head back and shot Greg a bewildered look. Lestrade maintained a grave, professional face. He also shrugged as if to say, what can you do.

"Well I-" He was trying so hard to follow along, poor sod. "It's a weekday. Class is in, Mr. Holmes. We couldn't be so absurd as to-"

"Approach people in a structured environment where authority is preemptively accepted as a precautionary assumption, and receive a higher rate of success?" He quirked his mouth up humourlessly. "We most certainly could be so, but I would not call it absurd."

"Off we are," Lestrade piped in, tired already. But this was all good and important. His sister's family and the town would only be safer after Holmes combs through it. Fawcett wasn't even being given enough time to be upset at how his relevance had been so quickly demoted. 

"Rah," Mr. Holmes said and swept out. 

"Don't forget your coffee," Lestrade advised. "You might need it."

"Well," Fawcett breathed. "Right then."

* * *

The school was the drabbest building in the whole town. It was low and squat and the concrete walls and small, high windows gave it the look of a makeshift prison. The school had slapped on some colourful slogans by the entrance doors, but it only seemed to make the unwelcoming building that much more notable.

Sherlock lets Fawcett walk them in, thank Lord for the small mercies.

"It's art," Fawcett was saying. "Some bit of sixties brutalism popularised on the mainland, but it had its moment here in Britain. We've got to preserve it." The inside was no less dreary, Lestrade noted as the heavy wood double doors shut behind them. The harsh fluorescent lighting was not helping. "Yes, well." The policeman looked equally unimpressed by the school. "Rough, I remember even in my day. Not a terribly cheerful place..."

"The friends." Sherlock prompted, hands behind his back, likely fidgeting impatiently. Or with anticipation.

"The office," corrected Fawcett. "Gibbons will direct us in. He's a good man, Gibbons."

And Gibbons did seem very nice indeed, a portly man with crinkly eyes that held his office door open for them. Head of the school he was, but did not seem particularly intimidating. But it had been a while since Lestrade had been in sixth form and he barely remembered what a head of the college was meant to be like.

"So very glad to have you here, fellows." He meaningfully tilted his head to the man already in the office, standing in a distinctly meek way. "Mister Summers was just off."

"Psychology isn't a science," Sherlock said drily as the man passes on his way out. The man stopped mid step, head bowed awkwardly.

"All... right then." he eyed Holmes a tad bit, but handled the random outburst well in Greg's opinion. "I'm sorry." Sherlock jutted his chin out in a rather aggressive way. And the man was gone.

"Really, Sherlock," Lestrade muttered.

"It's not," he said, petulantly and at full volume. And then without missing a beat- "I need your children." Gibbons clutched his midriff with a pudgy hand.

"Ha, well!"

"Preferably right now, an access to those who know Christopher Knightley starting with his year."

"Now, Mister Holmes, I'm not sure how they do it over in the big city but here we aren't all rush-rush like your lot."

"Glad to waste time, it seems." Gibbons sighed, and turned his attention to Fawcett.

"George, I was glad when you rang. I've been meaning to drop by the station today, this makes it more convenient."

"Really?" Fawcett looked surprised. "Good man." Gibbons leaned to partially sit on his own desk. His breathing was noticeable, Lestrade noted. It was coming in wheezes.

"It does seem the night of... there was some get together... some, you understand, recreational drug abuse. The Holloways' girl, over there off Corner's End."

"Mm," Fawcett nodded sagely. "That'll be of note."

"Mister Knightley was sighted there by many of his classmates, apparently."

"Ah," Fawcett said. "We will go ahead with lacing theories, I suppose. Thank you very much, Tim. It's so intimidating when police-"

"You have to be missing any common sense," Sherlock interrupted. "We were informed of a non-medical analysis. Drug tested! Were they not, ha. This is not a detective series on the telly, I believe even the hicks here say there is procedure."

"The department-"

"Does your department's analysis hold any accuracy? The slightest, Mister Fawcett? Enlighten me, oh, please do."

"Mr. Holmes!" The man said, taken aback but defensive outrage was quickly replacing his shock. "You cannot just- he really did." Fawcett looks at the two other occupants of the office.

"He just left."

"Well, he'll be around somewhere." Lestrade offered unhelpfully. "He's brilliant?" He added. "I mean really, he is." The other men gave him a sceptical eyeing up.

"Londoners," Gibbons said heavily. "So very rude."

"All the same, Mister Fawcett," Greg turned on the man. "We were informed of a different state of the investigation. It seems that you're approaching a dangerous, developing pattern with the grasp of a civilian."

"I apologise..."

Sherlock didn't bother to linger by the front office. He would let Lestrade manage public relations. He was here to solve a case. Considering the effort the police force here seemed to have put in, it might be easier than anticipated. Compared to them, he was sure he would cover all his bases.

He stalked down the hall most certainly not dramatically- and it did not matter that he turned up his coat collar. Perhaps he was only cold.

* * *

"... and I'd reckon it was Liv that ran off to her mum, and she went and told Gibbons. I've not got time for taking that kind of shit, dad'll murder me really... and it was only weed, honestly... acting like she was in a ket hole god's sake..."

"Ames please, shut it."

"I didn't really know she was there in the first place, I mean who even invited her-"

"Shut up," the boy growled as best he could. 

"Oh, you're unbelievable Sam, you utter prick. I'm fucking all nerves right now!"

"Look you may be fit, but you're thick in the head Ames. Scotland Yard isn't up here to scout out your drug habits." Dramatic effect _opportunity_ , thought Sherlock.

"No, maybe not, but it could." He stepped into the hallway intersection to be fully in the students' view.

"Christ," breathed the girl, certainly likely to be 'Ames'. Sherlock smiled.

"Christ- _opher_ Knightley, I hope. You are of Christopher's year, are you not?" He subtly gritted his teeth at his own pun, but like most things, it flew right over the teens.

"Yeah," said the boy. He looked angry, but that Sherlock paid no mind. It was blatantly clear why mere seconds later. "He hasn't got a clue, all right? He's told your lot everything he knows. Over and over and over. He's barely sleeping. Nervous all the time, that it'll happen again. Just leave him be."

"I believe you are not Christopher, and I am speaking with you." The boy shifted again, still angry with no direction but that was alright for Sherlock. He could push him in the direction he needed. "I have some questions..."

"What about 'no' can't you lot get?" He said. "Jesus."

"Party?" He asked smoothly. The same likely alluded to in the administrator's office.

"It's not anything!" The girl exclaimed. "It really wasn't- isn't- I don't think Knightley was even there. Liv's a horrid gossip, really."

"I understand that he has been uncooperative after the _initial_ questionings." The boy snorted, but Sherlock watched with satisfaction as- yes- the girl pulled out her phone from her pocket.

"Mister I'm sorry, right, I'm ringing him," she said over the mobile she was suddenly holding up.

"Rat," the boy said. "He doesn't want to talk."

"Can I do this much with peace? He wouldn't want us to get screwed either!"

"In peace." She rolled her eyes.

"Whatever. You utter pillock. Oh, hi? Chris, yeah, listen..."

* * *

Some time later, Lestrade and Sherlock sat in a cramped kitchen on a couple of stools.

"If they came back, or whatever it is... happened again...

My mum couldn't," he lowered his voice and leaned over the countertop, seeming to hold his breath. "she couldn't manage it. I really don't think I could either." He leaned back straight and breathed out.

"A ridiculous concern, if you were what they wanted you wouldn't be here. You either didn't have whatever it took, or your purpose was fulfilled. Why in the world would you be here if they didn't..." Lestrade snapped up straight to look at Sherlock as he trailed off. "If they didn't, want you to be... of course. Entirely in their hands! Hah!" Sherlock interlaced his fingers, each hand gripping at the other as if it was going to rip itself from his body and run off.

"How'd you get him to let us over anyhow?" He asked in side whisper. Sherlock spared Greg a raised brow.

"Dear me, I've got a pot on." Sherlock twisted his neck like an owl to the unwelcome hand gripping his shoulder. Lestrade personally thought he was rather tactile, although always on his -overbearing, uncontrollable- terms. It was the boy's mother asking if, "You need a cuppa, detectives?" 

"A Consultant and a Detective Inspector." Christopher's mum looked rather blankly to him and Sherlock rapidly sought words. "Yes. Tea. Fine."

Lestrade drew his mouth tight at the man's discomfort. He couldn't imagine him as a young boy, or with any sort of motherly figure, but it wasn't like Holmes sprung from the earth fully-formed. 

But Greg wouldn't put it past him.

"Coffee, if you've got it." Lestrade cleared his throat, leaning forward.

"Sure dear, sure do." He smiled at her.

Most likely Sherlock had been a child once and now even was only a young man, not even thirty years old. If Lestrade had children- and he wished he had earlier on in his life- he would be staggered to have such an extraordinary son. He wondered if Sherlock knew that, like he seemed to know everything else. But as Lestrade sipped at his coffee, piping hot from Mrs. Knightley, he thought to himself that maybe Sherlock wasn't all too adept at simple things. Like plain affection, support. John Watson was certainly an odd, if welcome addition to the Sherlock Holmes dynamic. Maybe he was self aware, that Sherlock. Maybe he knew he needed a softer, human counterpart. It would be just like him, to delegate something like emotion off on someone else.

I suppose, Lestrade thought, that he's trying, isn't he.

With the pleasantries at the Knightley homestead done, Sherlock and Lestrade were back to tense silence. The DI knew questioning the man would either put him off or send him into a frenzy. Like most of the time, letting Sherlock work in his own head would be best. Frustrating, definitely. But it was time and time again proven effective. Dropping Fawcett from their crew seemed to soothe him too.

On the way to his sister's, because he couldn't be in town with dropping by, Lestrade made some small talk. It was curious that...

"It seems like no one's taking this seriously."

"Doesn't look like the mentality, around here," his companion muttered. "Shaping up to be something of mild interest. A six upon leaving, an eight with the lies... the toes..."

"Sex?" Lestrade said funnily. "Wait- what toes?"

"What are you- no, the number." Greg chuckled.

"I know."

"I know you know," Sherlock said irritably.

"Took you a second."

"My evaluation of your cognitive skills remains a resounding: poor. Forgive me for acting from experience."

"Always prickly, Holmes." 

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, and Lestrade was almost certain he lifted up his chin.

"What, erm, toes were you talking about?" But Sherlock was no longer in the mood for talking. "Right, never mind me then. She's up on the left, yellow door." He smiled at an old inside joke. He hoped it wouldn't be too disastrous having Sherlock along.

* * *

"If you've got something off to say, I'd rather not hear it," Greg said heavily. He was always in a good mood after visiting his sister. There was no need for Sherlock to tear it all up with some offhand, destructive commentary. There was always, always something, wasn't there. And he'd been so good, so quiet.

"No," he said quickly. "Nothing off, well, not in _your_ way."

"Sherlock." He warned. A beat of silence.

"You seem to... get on well. With each other."

"Oh, jesus," Lestrade said drily. "You never miss a thing."

The car ride back was much more frantic than the way there. Sherlock was fully awake and activated, and easily distracted by each passing fleck of dust. It was decided after less than fifteen minutes of Sherlock drifting into the opposite lane because of 'the woman with suspiciously dyed hair, didn't you seer' that Lestrade would drive. Sherlock still proved to be very distracting, but Greg knew this for years now.

He had never forced Sherlock into a police vehicle for his own sanity after the first tricky month of knowing him well enough to invite him in a car. Shockingly, him being clean did not make him any better of a driver _or_ passenger.

* * *

Back to 221B Baker Street, John had had a pleasantly dull day and it was nearly late-afternoon.

"Hello there," John said pleasantly, coming out the kitchen to stand by his chair. A cuppa was steaming in his hands.

"Not made ourselves popular, afraid," Lestrade shared a raised eyebrow with John before nodding to Sherlock. "Well I'm off then. I'll hear from you?"

"Yes, yes, yes." He muttered from the mantle, fingering the ornate dagger lodged there.

"Don't bother Fawcett any more than we have," he called from the stairs. And then the Detective Inspector was gone.

"Oh ho then," John said under his breath. "Sherlock's been an arse? Tell me something new, god's sake."

"Heard that, dear."

"Well- er, yes," he raised a brow to the smiling Mrs. Hudson, who had appeared from the kitchen. His private theory was that Sherlock drugged the poor woman with some woozy concoction to make her so damn agreeable. Or maybe it was the result of Sherlock's special cologne: the one that makes everyone around him willing to act as his temporary doormat. Or on the other hand (there was another outcome)- the special effect which they became so willing to kill him.

It really was a toss of the dice, he mused.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, nothing," John put his hands up in surrender. "Was just thinking. Thoughts. I do have them, on occasion." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and resolutely turned his back completely to Watson. Oh Sherlock, John thought. Now I can watch you blankly, with you none the wiser.

Odd, that a man like him would be uncomfortable with harmless scrutiny.

He appears to thrive almost solely on the negative, and shies away from even neutral interaction. If John were a clinical psychologist, maybe he could deliver a diagnosis applicable to his flatmate.

But he was not. So he sat quietly in his chair as his tea went cold again, over-steeped, and he read headlines from his laptop to which Sherlock could answer with some humorous one liner over his shoulder.


End file.
